


in white

by saltfics



Series: in silver linings scattered [1]
Category: Red White & Royal Blue - Casey McQuiston
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Brother Feels, Brotherly Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Have an angst piece, Hurt/Comfort, I'm Bad At Tagging, I'm taking tag suggestions at this point, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, One day I'll write Henry happy, Philip and Henry's relationship needs expanding okay?, Sad with a Happy Ending, Sibling Bonding, Siblings, so here, today is not that day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:35:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23724682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltfics/pseuds/saltfics
Summary: "When Philip told him Martha was expecting, he was surprised but pleased for his brother and sister-in-law. Excited even at the idea of being an uncle, despite any nervousness the concept brought him. But he always thought of a child as a ‘baby’. Philip and Martha are going to have a baby. He got so fixated in the general concept of a family, and how ‘they’ve been trying for it for so long, that’s so great,’ that he somehow forgot that the child would be a real person. And Philip would be a real father.Now he stares down at the small, innocent, clueless bundle in his arms and wonders what kind of wrathful universe would grant his brother another boy to raise."The arrival of Philip's firstborn son brings a lot more than just joy to his family. As Henry stresses over the implications, the two of them take the opportunity to have some conversations that are long overdue.
Relationships: Alex Claremont-Diaz/Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor, Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor & Philip Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor, Martha Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor & Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor, Martha Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor/Philip Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor
Series: in silver linings scattered [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1838530
Comments: 90
Kudos: 287





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> One day, I will write an actual summary instead of just stealing quotes from the piece itself, but today is not that day either.
> 
> A huge thanks to everyone who took the time to leave kudos and especially comments to 'at least it was here'! You're the reason I decided to write more works in this fandom! Thank you.

The phone rings in the middle of the night and Henry wonders which higher power he’s managed to anger this time.

Alex twists his pillow to cover his ears, then shoves Henry towards the sound. “It’s yours,” he groans. “Make it stop.”

He reaches blindly for his phone, squinting at the light emanating from his screen. His mind short-circuits at Bea’s name on the display, before it rushes twice as fast. Every twisted scenario as to why his sister would be calling him at four in the morning plays out in a chaotic montage of disaster in his mind. He freezes, suddenly wide awake.

“Sweetheart, answer it before you assume things,” Alex, bless him, mutters on his pillow.

Henry brings the phone to his ear. “Hello?” His voice is still hoarse from sleep.

“Oh, Hen, I’m sorry! I woke you up, didn’t I?” comes his sister’s voice and he relaxes a fraction at the lack of panic.

“It’s okay. What happened?”

Bea chuckles, a bit sheepish. Someone says something to her and she must cover her mouthpiece to answer because all Henry can hear for a moment are muffled voices. “ _Bea,_ ” he tries again.

“Sorry, sorry. Is there any chance you could catch an earlier flight? As in… now?”

Henry frowns. He was supposed to fly home next week so he could be with his family for… Oh. “Wait, is it—?”

“Yeah,” Bea laughs. “We’re at the hospital right now.”

They end the call a few seconds later. He’s surprised to find something lodged in his throat that he doesn’t have a name for, and the novelty of his emotion scares him, for he’s not sure if it’s a good or a bad one. He files the question away for later.

“Hey, what happened?” Alex sits up on the bed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Everything okay?”

He hums, rushing about the room to grab the luggage from the closet and pack as quickly as he can. He hates the idea of turning on the light when Alex still looks so sleepy but he has little choice, so he warns him to turn away before flicking the switch on the small bedside lamp.

He calls Shaan, apologizing profusely for the hour, and he’s halfway through asking about a flight before he realizes he never actually told Alex what happened. Alex, who’s watching him with wide eyes, balancing on his knees, ready to jump off the bed and fight something. It would be incredibly endearing, if he didn’t feel so guilty about worrying him.

“Henry, what’s happening?” he asks, once Henry finishes his call.

“I need to go to my family a little sooner than expected, love.” He stopped using the phrasing ‘fly home’ about a year ago. There’s only one home he can go back to, as far as he’s concerned.

“I thought we were going next week?”

Henry shrugs, smiling; for the first time since the call, anticipation overpowers his surprise. “Yes, er, apparently the baby laughs in the face of our plans.”

He watches with fondness as realization ripples into Alex’s expression, a hesitant joy taking the place of sleep, and then there’s no hesitation at all, only pure excitement. “Really? _Now_?” But he also has to witness the slight crease form between his brows as Alex understands why he hasn’t ushered him to get up yet. “Wait… I have the…”

“The exam, yes. It’s fine, love.”

Henry approaches the bed and Alex takes his hands in his, giving them a tight squeeze.

“You’ll be all right? You’re sure?”

His hurry is forgotten for a second. All he can see is the soft pout of Alex’s lips, the worry pooling in his eyes. The scarce light of the lamp casts long, awkward shadows in the room, but Henry has spent long enough studying Alex’s face, from close and far alike, that he has memorized every feature. He knows the sight. He knows the taste, too. But he presses his lips to Alex’s anyway, a reminder, and a nudge to loosen that scowl into something brighter. “I’ll be fine. Mum and Bea will be there.”

“Yeah, but…”

“Besides,” he adds, planting a second kiss to his cheek. “That’s… that’s getting better too.”

A knock on their door tells them Shaan is waiting for him outside and Henry lets go with some reluctance.

“I’m a phone call away,” Alex reminds him, finally shuffling out of bed to help him gather the rest of his stuff. “I’ll move my flight. The moment I tackle that stupid exam I’ll be on the first plane there, I promise.”

“It’ll be all right. Focus on your thing.”

Henry leans down ever so slightly for one last kiss on Alex’s forehead, which he knows he hates to love, because it reminds him of a certain height difference. Alex grabs his hand as he tries to leave and pulls him in for a proper one. “You didn’t really think you’d go to England for weeks with such a half-assed send off, did you?” he points out and Henry breathes a fluttery laugh between his lips.

* * *

He spends the 8-hour flight alternating between reading, writing and staring out the window as though the soft sheet of clouds stretching along the horizon will hold the answers to his questions if only he looks hard enough. His stomach refuses to settle down, trapped in an intense game of jump-rope, and that as-of-yet unnamed feeling lingers behind his back, watching him. 

He’s not… scared. There’s no reason he should be, either. Mum and Bea will be there. If he sees Gran, he knows she won’t address him. She’s taken to doing that now, after she failed to change his mind—if she thinks it’s a punishment, Henry cannot fathom how. And Philip… Well. Philip has been trying.

He didn’t lie to Alex. It is getting better. And Henry can’t bother to care about whether Philip will ever become a role model of an older brother or not, they’re too many years too late for that. But as long as he doesn’t leave each meeting with him with an uninvited, hollowing wrongness carving out the space between his ribs, he’ll take it. It doesn’t matter anymore. He has another home to return to, and a person who loves him for every piece that he is, by his side, a glimpse, a touch, a phone call away. And no one in that blasted palace can touch that. They tried. They failed.

“Are you well?” Shaan asks him, studying him from the opposite seat.

Henry sighs. He lets his head flop back to the headrest and his eyes drift closed for a moment of much coveted peace. “I’m not certain.” 

Shaan waits. 

“I should… I’m not happy. Shouldn’t I? For them? I mean—I _am_ , but there’s something else… I can’t quite put my finger on it.”

“Do you think it’s Mr. Claremont-Diaz’s absence that’s unsettling you?”

He frowns, eyes still closed. “No. It’s—It’s from earlier too. Honestly, I think I’ve been like this since Philip told me, I’ve just distracted myself with other things.”

There’s a pause, and Henry pries one eye open to look at him.

“Is there a chance you’re… jealous of your brother, perhaps?”

“What? No. No, Alex and I—we’re not there yet. Maybe one day. He’s…” Henry huffs out a short laugh at the memory of Alex blurting out about heirs in front of the Queen. “He’s said so himself. But that’s not it, I’m sure.”

Shaan clears his throat, straightening in his seat. He gives him the smallest of smiles, which Henry mirrors immediately despite the uncertainty churning in his stomach. “Then perhaps you’ll know when you get there, sir. Try and get some rest until we arrive.”

* * *

By the time Henry gets to the hospital, it’s quarter to seven in the evening in London, he’s horribly jet-lagged, his stress has clawed its way up his throat and he feels thoroughly unprepared to face any member of his family, even the newest one. But he’s ushered inside before he can conjure any plausible protest, where he finds Bea waiting for him, grinning from ear to ear.

She pulls him into a hug, the kind that lingers a second longer than it should, the kind that’s held too tight, and he knows she sees whatever discomfort is written on his face. “You missed the delivery.”

“Is that necessarily a bad thing? Familial obligations notwithstanding?”

“Well, you also missed Pip’s incessant pacing, so I think the only person mad at you is me for leaving me to deal with him alone.”

Henry clears his throat. “How _is_ Philip?”

She side-eyes him at his behavior, but doesn’t comment on it yet. “Honestly, I think he’s really happy.” She shrugs at the surprised look he gives her. “You haven’t been here recently. He’s been really warming up to the idea.”

“Let’s hope he’s not just warming up to the _idea_ ,” he scoffs, then regrets it, even if Bea doesn’t disagree with him.

His phone buzzes in his pocket.

you there yet??

how’s the nibling?

I love you so much for that word.

send pics!!

send some of the baby too

You’re insufferable.

I’m going in.

“Ready?” Bea asks, frowning up at him. “Seriously, are you all right?”

Henry runs a hand through his hair, before quickly trying to pat it down properly again. He may have just come from an eight-hour flight but he doesn’t have to look it. Bea motions him to lean down so she can help him. “I’m fine, B. Just jet-lagged.”

She purses her lips, not quite believing him. “We’ll find an excuse to dismiss you.”

The next few moments pass in a surreal sort of detachment. Bea knocks on the door and Martha’s voice calls them in. Her hold on the back of his shirt is the only thing that gets his feet moving, but his eyes are roaming with hunger around the room, as if the source of his unease will finally reveal itself to him now that he’s here.

He notices Philip first, seated on a chair next to the hospital bed. The top button of his shirt is undone and his hair has been ruffled out of place. Henry can’t remember the last time he saw his brother so improper. And he certainly hasn’t seen that smile since the wedding. Even someone like Philip, in his life of perfect adequacy, trapped in his silver linings of _just fine_ , can find a bright star to turn to and to love, and he’s glad for him, truly. Henry is, if anything, a strong advocate for their right to find at least one piece of happiness to hold on to after all.

Philip in turn, widens his smile ever so slightly at his brother’s entrance. “Henry,” he calls, his voice laced with an odd gentleness to it. Henry’s back still straightens in response. “Thank you for coming on such short notice. I hope you didn’t miss anything important.”

He missed the chance to have Alex by his side, but he’s not sure exactly how to convey how important that is, so he says nothing.

Martha must notice his discomfort. “Henry, darling. I’m so glad you’re here,” she smiles, warm and sweet like honeyed milk, and he wonders again how someone like Martha tolerated the person Philip used to be, if he’s generous enough to question whether Philip is the same person anymore. “Come closer,” she beckons, hugging the bundle in her arms tighter against her chest.

From his point of view, Henry can only catch a glimpse of rosy skin amidst pearly white cloth, but his heart dances at the sight. He reminds himself why he’s here and how excited he was at the idea not too long ago, and he lets the memory of that odd, hopeful phone call with his brother guide his feet forward towards his sister-in-law.

“Hello,” he says, rounding the bed to come stand next to her. “How are you feeling?”

“A little tired, darling. But it’s so very worth it.” She shares a smile with her husband and Henry can’t help the slight raise of his own lips, before Martha offers the bundle towards him. “Do you want to hold him?”

“Him?”

Martha grins, transferring the babe to his arms before he can overthink it. “Here you go, dear. Meet your baby nephew.”

He fumbles with his hold at first, careful to keep the baby’s head supported. Only once he’s certain he’s not about to do something catastrophic does he allow himself to look at the tiny person in his arms. The baby’s awake, albeit sleepy, half-lidded eyes studying him with a lazy curiosity, his pouty lips sticking out. Traces of blond tufts crown his head, and his gaze shines in a vibrant sky blue. He’s brilliant and so, so small, and Henry’s gut is heavy with an emotion he thinks he can now name. He’s desperate not to.

Bea presses herself to his side. “Aw,” she coos, patting the newborn’s arm with two fingers. “He kind of looks like you when you were a baby, Hen.”

He chuckles, a curt, awkward sound, his heart bobbing up and down his throat. “I’m sure Philip looked just about the same when we were that young, B.”

“Henry?” Philip asks in a stern tone that has his eyes snapping up to him in an instant. “Are you all right, mate?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” he lies, with a smile Alex would recognize, and so would Bea, but he’s not sure if Philip can tell it’s fake. “I guess I’m just surprised.” He looks back down, finds the baby still looking at him, head tilted a tad to the side, as if he’s taking him in, even though he knows he’s still too young for that.

His smile eases into something softer and he hears the fake shutter sound of a phone taking a picture. Bea smiles with all the innocence of a child caught with crayons on the wall. “What? I’m sure Alex asked for photos. Maybe some of the baby, too?”

“Should I be concerned about how much time you’ve spent with him if you know him _that_ well?”

“What surprises you, Henry?” Philip returns to their previous discussion. And Henry doesn’t know if it’s because he’s truly concerned at his puzzling behavior, or if he wants to dismiss any mention of Alex, or something else entirely, and the difference between all the possibilities is so vast he can get lost in it.

“I don’t know. I guess I didn’t expect you to… to have a son?”

When Philip told him Martha was expecting, he was surprised but pleased for his brother and sister-in-law. Excited even at the idea of being an uncle, despite any nervousness the concept brought him. But he always thought of a child as a ‘baby’. Philip and Martha are going to have a baby. He got so fixated in the general concept of a family, and how _‘they’ve been trying for it for so long, that’s so great_ ,’ that he somehow forgot that the child would be a real person. And Philip would be a real father.

Now he stares down at the small, innocent, clueless bundle in his arms and wonders what kind of wrathful universe would grant his brother another boy to raise.

* * *

_“_ _How’s it going, Uncle Henry?”_ Alex greets as soon as he picks up the phone. He can visualize that grin of his in his mind’s eye and he holds onto the image like a lifeline.

“Please, don’t,” he laughs. “That just sounds wrong.”

He excused himself from the hospital room to make the call and he’s taken up a bench in the courtyard, sitting with his elbows on his knees and trying hard not to show exactly how tired he feels in front of all the people there.

_“It’s true though! How is everyone?”_

“Everyone’s fine. Martha seems to be in good health and Pip actually _smiled_ when he saw me, so, you know, he might be possessed but I’d call that fine too.” Alex chuckles on the other side of the line and Henry closes his eyes to savour the sound. “I haven’t seen Mum yet. She was here before me but she’s left to take care of some last minute preparations for when they return home with the baby. She’ll probably return with Gran, too.”

_“That sounds… fun.”_

“I’m contemplating whether I should claim jet-lag and make myself scarce before that.”

 _“Not your worst idea.”_ There’s shuffling on Alex’s end. He hears David’s quiet barks, listens as Alex succumbs to his demands for pets and cuddles. _“Are you missing Daddy? Are you? You want to see him? Me too, David, me too._ ” His fingers clench around the phone. _“So how’s your nephew?”_

Ah. “Bea told you?” Alex hums. “Did she send the picture?”

“ _Adorable. And, you know, the baby was cute too.”_

“ _Alex_.”

_“What?”_

“I wish you were here,” he admits, regrets the wistfulness that seeps into his voice. The misery rings crystal clear and he feels one with the dirt beneath his feet, for being the kind of self-centered prick who would ever dare sound so goddamn unhappy on his nephew’s birthday. 

His nephew who looked at him so openly and Henry felt the need to grab him and run. 

“How’s the studying going?” he tries to fix it, but of course Alex won’t let him get away with it.

_“H, what’s going on? Bea said you were acting weird.”_

“It’s nothing.”

 _“_ What _’s nothing?”_

The thing is, Henry has finally managed to name that feeling that has been clawing at him since that morning, half a day and an ocean ago. He’s put a nice clean label on it, the word **_d r e a d_** written out with bold, crisp letters on glossy sticker paper, and placed not on its chest but on its mouth, that open, gnawing mouth that’s been starving for every ounce of his attention and glares his joy down until it falters under the pressure. And he’s tried to do what he always does: find the emptiest, darkest room in their dead, haunted palace and lock it inside, away from the light, away from his family who deserves his happiness right now, not this uninvited apprehension. But it keeps running away from him. He finds it in his brother’s room, deep down the corridors, spread out on the carpet of the nursery, and he wants to scream. Because Philip hasn’t been a dick to him in two years now, but Bea’s voice is ringing down the hallways of his mind, mimicking the words from earlier, devoid of their fondness, distorted. _He kind of looks like you._ And heavens help him, he remembers how good Philip is at stepping on boys’ hearts and molding them as if he owned them.

_“Henry?”_

“It’s… it’s stupid.”

_“I doubt it.”_

He sighs, running a hand through his face and leaving it there to rest his head against it. “I’m… and again, it’s stupid… I’m honestly a bit upset Philip had a son.” Alex waits for him to continue. “I mean, I don’t know if it would be any better if he had a daughter, I just…” he scoffs, trails off. “It’s stupid. And selfish. And it’s not fair to Philip anymore. I should be happy for them.”

 _“No, I… I understand what you mean.”_ Alex pauses for a second, organizing his thoughts. _“But, you know this baby is not alone, right? He has his mother—and I don’t_ know _how Martha married your brother, but she’s too cool to ever let anyone hurt her son.”_ Henry laughs, but it’s too quiet, too breathless to tell Alex he’s succeeded. _“And Bea. And two kick-ass uncles who are never going to let this kid believe he’s alone. I mean, come on, Hen, his uncle runs a youth shelter. He’ll know he’s safe no matter what. Trust me.”_

“Alex…” Henry chokes through the lump in his throat. How he got this man to love him is beyond him, but he allows himself to bask in the feeling for a moment longer.

 _“Fuck, I wanna give you the biggest hug right now. Soon._ Soon _!”_

They stay like this for a while, with Alex rambling in his ears until he calms down enough to head back inside.

* * *

He knocks on the door again, and when Martha tells him to come inside and close it behind him, he does so without thinking. She’s alone in the room with the baby, holding him close to her chest to… _Oh._

“You could have told me to wait outside, doyouwantmetogo?” he splutters, getting the last question out in one breath.

“Oh, no, no, it’s fine, come in. Unless you’re uncomfortable, dear.”

Alex is right, _how_ did Martha ever marry Philip?

“Where is everyone?” Henry asks, taking up a seat to her left, the opposite side from where the baby is feeding.

“Oh, you know…” She gestures vaguely around, even though Henry really does not. “Talking to doctors, fetching stuff from home, getting mothers and grandmothers here to parade the new heir around.”

He smiles in sympathy at the clipped edge to her tone at the last sentence. He remembers what Alex said about not letting anyone hurt her son and relaxes further into his seat. “So, have you decided on a name yet?”

Martha looks up, her eyes softening. “Nothing official yet. We’re a bit torn. It would be more appropriate apparently to pick from the typical family names…”

“Martha, please don’t give your son four names, _trust_ me, he won’t like them.”

She chuckles, her whole face glowing despite the exhaustion gathered in the darkness beneath her eyes. He’s about to ask her if she needs anything, if he should take him from her to sleep, when she says, “Noted. Philip also thinks it would be a nice gesture to name him Arthur, after your father.”

Cold washes down his back, a storm of ice shards, sharp like talons drawing lines along his spine. He straightens, body going frigid, eyes blown wide. And for an odd second, he marvels at this cold kind of anger, the way it covers all of him first, overtaking everything before it hardens.

“Darling, are you okay?”

“A _gesture_ ?” he scoffs, bitterness coating his words. How dare he? Philip, who never stopped accusing their dad. Who thought him shameful for not serving in the military. Who said that he _left_ them, when dad would have never _ever_ abandoned them if only he’d been given the choice.

Martha is staring at him, lips pressed into a line. 

Guilt cracks through the ice inside him, white-hot and heavy in his stomach.

“I… I apologize, I…”

She shakes her head. “No, Henry, it’s okay. Don’t apologize.” She lowers her voice then to a conspiratorial whisper. “Can I tell you something?”

“Anything.”

“I’m glad you’re here. You’ll be good for him,” she says, nodding towards the baby now asleep in her arms.

The anger melts, not with violence this time but with a warm sense of relief that washes over him like a wave. His shoulders loosen, head slumping forward. “Really? Why?”

Three things happen all at once:

Philip opens the door to the room, midway through his wife’s reply.

Henry turns at the sound of the door, catching his brother’s gaze as the words register in his mind.

And Martha… Martha says this:

“It’ll be good for him to see someone so unapologetically himself.”

Henry and Philip stare at each other for one long, painful heartbeat. Something crashes inside of him, leaving jagged pieces to pierce the soft tissue there and the carnage must show up on his face, because Philip frowns, surprise flashing in his eyes.

Henry bolts out of the room, ignoring the calls he leaves in his wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Okay, obviously there's going to be another part because this is a Philip & Henry fic and they have yet to properly interact. Don't worry, that's on its way. So.. uh.. see you soon?
> 
> Wait, no, leave a comment before you leave! It's right there! ε:


	2. Chapter 2

He doesn’t stop running. Guilt and anger and an embarrassment that feels like betrayal propel him forward, the crash as inescapable as a wave to the shore. And though like a wave he too will have to return and be one with the sea, just a drop in an ocean of water, for now he’ll rush towards the sand and hold on for as long as he can. Until his fate drags him back into a place that looks like his own, yet drowns him.

Henry runs, aching for a spot of air and sunlight, because the shadows look too much like his home and they strike too hard against the words still echoing in his head, the kindness in them sharpened by his own accusation. He runs until he reaches an exit to the roof and hides himself in the farthest corner there. He sits on the ground, his back against the railing, arms hugging his knees close to his chest. The sun he craved so badly hurts his eyes, and the chill, so much more pronounced at this height, is biting through his clothes. So much for his salvation.

He aches to call Alex, or even Pez, anyone but his family. But when he fishes for the phone in his pockets, he realizes he’s left it in the room. Fuck. _Fuck_.

A sob crawls its way up his throat. He presses both palms in front of his mouth, buries his face in his knees, hoping he won’t be heard, praying to this unfair, _mocking_ universe that no one will find him up there. The young prince crying his eyes out on the day of his nephew’s birth. The tabloids would have a field day. Philip would actually murder him.

Henry doesn’t know how long he stays like this. With his eyes closed, he might have even dozed off at some point. After an indeterminate amount of time, he dares to raise his head and finds himself more exhausted than he thought. His tears have long dried, leaving sticky trails on his cheeks, and his eyelids feel heavy, tempting his eyes to drift closed again. Shifting his back to a more proper sitting position takes a herculean amount of effort, as does pushing his messed-up hair away from where it stuck on his face. Henry sighs, defeated, and deflates against the railing.

The sun is starting to get too hot against his pale skin, but he doesn’t want to move. Moving means heading back to the room to fetch his phone. It means explaining why he ran and finding a way to respond to that. He actually quite prefers the empty place in his stomach where the dread used to be, even if it leaves him with a hollowness that spreads into his bones, taking away what little backbone he thought he had gained.

The door to the roof slams open, and he’s trapped between the need to cower further to remain unseen or straighten up as much as he can to save what little dignity he can muster. In the end, all he can do is freeze and watch, eyes widening, as Philip rushes about the place, a whirlwind of stress and fury, before he spots him in the corner. Anger flashes in his brother’s eyes. Henry pushes himself harder against the railing like he could go through it if only he tried hard enough. At least it somewhat fixes his posture, although there’s no helping his crumpled clothes and dusty knees.

Philip rounds on him, red in the face, hands clenched into fists at his sides. His top button has been put in place again, but his clothes are more messed up than before, his hair haywire like he’s been running his hands through it.

Fear shoots through his veins for a moment. Did something happen to the baby? Is that why he looks so stressed?

“What the _fuck_ , Henry?” Philip all but growls and okay, he’s just mad at _him_ then. Henry can deal with that. “What were you thinking? Everyone is looking for you!”

Henry sits up a little better, trying to look a little less like a child who needs to hold himself, but his shoulders still slump forward with the weight of a day so determined to make him kneel. “What? Why?”

“What do you mean _why_ ? You ran out of the room and _disappeared,_ taking absolutely no one with you, telling no one where you are and you’re not answering your phone!”

“I left the phone in the room—”

“And you couldn’t come back and get it? Do you have any idea—? Are you truly this irresponsible that you’d do this…”

“Stop yelling at me,” Henry mutters, too quiet to be heard.

“… right now! With Gran on the way! Like there isn’t enough going on, we have to deal with your—”

“Stop yelling at me!" he braves, flinching at the sound of his own voice.

Philip stutters, trails off, his eyes blown wide.

“ _This_ is exactly why I left.”

“Define _this._ ”

And he searches his mind for a nicer way to phrase it, plays words around on his tongue, trying to find the one that’s not a lie, but all he can settle with, no matter how bad it makes him sound, is, “You.”

Philip’s mouth opens into a scoff, yet it comes out silent. The redness has receded from his face, leaving him a little too pale, so much that Henry can’t be sure he wasn’t the one who caused it. “... I see.”

He’s contemplating getting up and following him inside, bracing for the lecture that’s bound to come from everyone in the building, but Philip approaches him first. He lowers himself down to sit by his side, hands on his knees, leaning against the railing.

Henry gapes at him, his gaze flickering from the clothes that are without a doubt stained now from the dirty roof to the tense look in Philip’s eyes drawing crow’s feet on his face.

Philip’s mouth is pressed in a tight line and he sighs through his nose, looking like he’s preparing himself for something unfortunate. No, he looks like Henry did a couple of years before, every time he had to meet with his brother. 

“Why did it upset you?”

“What?”

“What Mazzy said. I saw you. Why did it upset you?”

“Well, for one thing, it’s not true,” he hears himself say. His mind is still trying to process the fact that he and Philip are having this conversation, or even the fact that Philip bent his careful image to sit down like this next to him.

“Is it not?” Philip frowns and Henry feels something lodge itself in his throat, poking at his lungs until his breathing starts to shake. It’s big and ugly and evasive, painful like apprehension, heavy with expectation, but it tastes a little bit like hope and he wants to swallow it down before it hurts him.

“Do… Do _you_ think it is?” Philip studies him, but Henry can’t take his silence, not right now. His brother _always_ has something to say. “The last thing I am is unapologetic.” He wants to bite his tongue, so he won’t utter the next part, but the bitterness lets the words slip out anyway. “You should know that. You’re the one who’s made me apologize the most.”

He flinches at the accusation. Henry marvels at finally knowing what that looks like and at the guilt that stabs at him, wondering how his brother could stand in the face of that so many times and say _nothing_.

He looks away, so he’s entirely unprepared when Philip continues.

“And yet you stood up to me.”

“Alex—”

“It _wasn’t_ Alexander, Henry. Perhaps it helped you to have something solid to hold on to, but…” Philip sighs, letting the sentence hang. “To answer your question, yes, I do believe it’s true. I think it will be good for him to have someone like you to look up to. Did you think I would scold you for it?”

His silence is enough of an answer and Philip copies it for a few moments. They’re not awkward, nor tense, yet the words hang heavy between them. They’ve done it now, it seems. Opened Pandora’s box to look at everything that lies between them and found the demons inside _wanting,_ waiting for their first move.

“I wanted you here,” Philip says finally.

“I... am here. If you ignore the past… how long have I been gone?”

“Two hours.”

“Christ.”

“Indeed, Henry. Indeed.” Henry starts to apologize, before Philip waves him off. “No matter, that’s not what I meant to say.” He pauses, wringing his hands in front of him with enough force for his knuckles to turn white. “When we first got the news about the pregnancy, Mazzy asked me to go through our old family photos. She wanted to see baby pictures, you see. She was so excited.”

“And you weren’t?”

Philip purses his lips. His gaze is looking somewhere in the distance, unfocused and Henry can’t decide if he wants him to look at him instead. “I was… Erm… well, I knew it was a good thing, obviously. That’s what we’re meant to do, no? Produce heirs?”

“Pip…”

“I am aware of how it sounds. Rest assured, I’m much happier now. More so than I thought I would be.”

“You did hate children.”

“Well, I do not hate my own. But at that time, I must admit, while I didn’t dislike the idea, I was… concerned. The photo albums didn’t help.”

Philip rummages through his suit jacket and pulls an old piece of photo paper from his inner pocket. Henry’s hands tremble slightly when he takes it from him. Careful to touch only the corners, he brings it closer to see. It has a faint yellow tinge to it, betraying the two decades of neglect it endured.

Recognition strikes once, hard, and pulls at heartstrings he thought were cut clean through years before, too tangled and frayed to do anything with them but set them free. Henry’s there in all his seven-year-old glory, with a bright grin on his face that’s so unfamiliar but rings true within this image. Little boy Pip is next to him, an arm tossed around his little brother’s shoulders. His smile is more contained, yet it radiates sincerity and plays with his features until he looks almost mischievous. And if you discard the clothes that look too proper, soft sweaters over dress shirts, fine shorts revealing skinny legs too clean for boys their age, they look almost normal. Just a pair of siblings, grinning up at someone who Henry vaguely recalls has to have been their father. There’s a small cut on Henry’s cheek and the knuckles of Philip’s hand on his shoulder are dirty.

“Why… You just carry that with you?”

Philip chuckles, scratching the back of his head. “No, no, I… I knew you were coming. I thought I would give it to you. If you wanted it, of course.”

Henry studies him for a moment. This rumpled side of him, the expression on his face that could almost be described as gentle, if it weren’t for the lines around his eyes, the stiffness on his shoulders. It was just the two of them up there, hiding from the rest of the world, and vague flashes slipped to the front of his mind, hazy and intangible like smoke, of summer afternoons teetering on the precipice of normal, playing hide ‘n’ seek around the massive gardens, conspiratorial grins on flushed faces and a brotherly camaraderie that had once come as naturally as any other human instinct.

Philip must take his silence for rejection, because he sighs, running a hand through his face. He looks tired now, when earlier his dishevelment only betrayed a spirited joy. “I have been thinking a lot since I found the photo, Henry. Trying to remember this side of me, of us. Sometimes I look at it and I wonder if we faked it for the camera. But I know that’s not true. It wasn’t then, anyway. Don’t you think?” He doesn’t pause long enough for a response. “You know, I remember when Mum told me I was going to have another sibling. A brother. I was so excited. I loved Bea very much, but having another boy in the house, being the older brother- it felt good. Dad told me I could be a role model for you and I took it to heart. I reveled in the idea, I think.”

Anger blooms in his guts, long and twisting and full of thorns. It pricks at him, wraps around his nerves and pulls. “I don’t think Dad meant quite what you did, Philip.”

“I understand that—”

Nervous energy travels from his frantic heart down to his limbs and Henry pushes himself to his feet. “Being a role model is not you _questioning_ everything I did.” He starts to pace, ignoring how heavy his body feels in the haze of his exhaustion. “My behavior, my _friends,_ my choices, my partner, my sexuality? Should I go on?”

“Henry—”

“Pez stood by me, supported me when you tried to _control_ me and you asked me to get rid of him.”

Philip is standing up now too, but he doesn’t move, waiting for the storm in Henry’s eyes to pass.

“And for what? For your _mates from uni_ ? Like you know a single bloody thing about—” He bites his tongue, killing the words before they can escape. This is not a conversation he can have with Philip right now, not when they step so carefully around their broken pieces. “Philip, if you pull any of this fucking nonsense with your son, I will _personally_ assassinate you.”

The short laugh startles him. It’s not a scoff, it’s not unkind. There’s genuine, albeit hesitant amusement in his brother’s face, lips half-raised on one side, brows furrowed in a gesture that speaks both of concern and disbelief. “You would ascend to the throne over this?”

Henry deflates. The storm inside him slows into a warning drizzle, ready to burst or fade completely. “Try me.” Philip is still smiling. “What?”

“Martha _was_ right, Henry.”

The words ripple through him, shifting the shape of everything he has in him, before they settle, shaken, back into place. He can’t process the implications of his brother’s words, can’t wrap his mind around this odd reality. It was always him and Bea. Philip, much like Gran, was someone to be feared, to be careful around. And though in the past two years, he made an effort, and they let him do so, he never once swallowed the truth that maybe this could be okay.

He thought this so impossible to have, he never once considered that maybe he would like to have it.

“And you didn’t let me finish. I was excited then, to have a brother. And wouldn’t you know it? When Mazzy and I found out the baby was a boy, I had the opposite reaction. I was terrified.”

“I thought you and Martha didn’t find out the sex until today?”

“Yes, erm. We lied.”

“Look at you, all rebellious.”

Philip chuckles, a real, undignified sound, awkward only because of its candidness. “Perhaps you’re rubbing off on me. You know... in the face of that photo I saw all the ways I’ve failed. And while I know that no matter how many times I apologize I can never expect you to truly forgive me, I do hope you’ll be there to stop me if I ever cross any more lines. Preferably before we have to resort to an assassination, yes? I do not think Alexander will enjoy Mazzy’s position, it doesn’t seem like his style.”

Henry laughs, despite himself.

“What do you think?” Philip dares ask. His hand is slightly raised towards him, twitching with nervousness.

“I think you should not hug me right now, because we’re not there yet.” He feels a bit guilty at the way Philip withdraws immediately, fixing his posture, but he decides to call that progress. “But yes, I can… I can do that.”

He doesn’t say he will forgive him, nor that he’s not sure he can. Philip doesn’t ask him to either, and this silent understanding takes another piece away from the wall between them.

They both jump when a phone rings in Philip’s front pocket.

“Beatrice. Yes, I found—”

Henry’s not sure what exactly is being said on the other line, but Philip doesn’t have the leeway to say another word. The buzz of noise Henry can hear is loud and fast, and maybe running off to the roof without telling anyone was indeed a horrendous idea.

“We’ll be right there.”

Philip returns the phone to its rightful place, before turning to Henry, looking like their sister might have shaved off a few years of his life.

“Did I get you in trouble?” he asks, trying not to let a nervous laugh break through.

“Let’s… head inside.”

“I’m... sorry?”

“Yes, well, hold that thought. We’re both about to be a lot more sorry, mate. Gran's here."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahem.... This conversation is actually not over yet. There should be another 1-2 chapters left, including a conversation about their dad, grief and name choices. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ 
> 
> Alex will probably make it to London at some point in the immediate future. XD
> 
> Thank you to everyone who left a comment in the previous chapter! It means a lot! c: See you next time ~


	3. Chapter 3

There is hope yet for that odd sense of brotherly camaraderie, as it turns out. He and Philip certainly feel the same type of all-around _fucked_ as they descend into the main hospital building. His earlier objection about them ‘not being there yet’ for physical contact is overlooked when they have to pat each other down, dust off pants and hands and bottoms and brush down wayward hair—but what does discomfort know in the face of desperation? He lets Philip turn him around and fuss with every little detail on him, this time without judgment or malice, but with the strict determination of prepping him to go to war. And he, in turn, polishes his brother’s finer details into the same stiff figure he once found nerve-wracking to look at, with all the prim propriety and preposterous sensibilities that includes.

They don’t succeed, of course. But they’re willing to try and salvage what they can.

Philip keeps a hand on the small of his back as they approach the door, guiding him forward. Henry fights the urge to slap it off, aware of nerves evident in that little gesture alone. After everything today, he can let him have this one.

“Are you ready?”

“Are _you_?” Henry retorts. They’re standing right outside the door, gathering the strength to enter. Maybe they should spare a moment to come up with a better excuse for their absence. “I feel like Gran has already mentally disowned me either way.”

Philip scoffs once, but no humor seeps through the sound. Whether he’s lamenting his own impending doom or Henry’s already established fate, he’s not sure, and he has no time to think on it. Philip opens the door and they both walk inside. The hand on his back clenches around the fabric of his shirt for just a second, before he lets it fall to his side.

The room is at its most crowded, and Henry feels a rush of sympathy for both the baby and his mother, with so many people fussing over them. Martha has gotten dressed for the occasion, because apparently the new mother’s comfort is not as important as their bloody decorum. Her son is in her arms, in fresh clothes and tucked in a cozy, cashmere blanket. He’s sleeping soundly, and Henry relaxes watching him, all rosy cheeks and soft golden tufts, surrounded by fabric white as a cloud.

Their own mum is at Martha’s side, stroking the baby’s little hair, talking to her daughter-in-law. She looks up at their arrival, her smile tainted only by slight concern when her gaze catches Henry.

Bea takes one look at them and shoves herself directly at his side, shoulders pressed close together. _We got you_ , her eyes seem to say, soft and intense at the same time. She’s firm and steady against him and he wants to embrace her, to apologize for running away and show her how much this means to him, but he can’t, not yet. So instead he gives an imperceptible nod of his head, and bumps their shoulders together for a breath of a second.

Queen Mary has no care for shows of companionship. The smile she wears in front of the baby can almost be described as joyous—and why wouldn’t it? He’s a baby. He’s young and beautiful and perfect. Full of potential. Clay for the modeling, all soft and sensitive and _pliable_. He hasn’t disappointed her yet, and if she has her way, he never has to.

Henry almost nudges Philip forward to take a stand.

He doesn’t, but Philip must mirror the sentiment in some way, because he takes the opportunity to speak.

By this point, of course, Mary’s smile has long since faded. Her eyes have already taken a sweeping look over the both of them, and Henry knows what she sees. Her favorite grandkid, looking more disheveled than he has in years despite his attempts to conceal it, and at such a momentous occasion, with so much press gathered outside too. And the most defiant, problematic of her grandchildren, copying that attire, or better yet, being the culprit behind it. Her gaze snatches on him, and the absence of a smile grows into a small scowl.

Henry stares back at her, silent, and he hates himself for not speaking up.

“Gran. I’m so delighted you could join us,” Philip clears his throat. He doesn’t move forward to greet her, and both his siblings shoot a fleeting gaze his way. “I see you’ve already met my son. Isn’t he rather perfect?”

Her scowl becomes a little less pronounced, yet the distaste remains etched in the lines of her face. Her eyes keep slipping to Henry. “Yes, well, Philip, if you were truly this delighted, perhaps you would not have let us wait.”

“I apologize, of course. It was not my intention to keep you waiting.”

“And what was your intention, exactly?”

Henry’s whole body turns rigid, nerves strung to their limit with anticipation. He’s not sure what he expects Philip to say. He doesn’t care what Gran thinks of him, at least he’s not _supposed_ to. But it’s hard. It’s so hard to be stuck here without Alex. It’s hard to be so far away from his real home, where his love and his heart and every piece of him that’s _his_ rests. There’s so much distance between him and that perfect, barely attainable reality that in the face of Mary’s stern, unforgiving look, it’s hard to remember he ever left this place to begin with. When she stares at him with so much scorn gathered in her eyes, all he can think of are her words, so mindless of his grief, so careless with his heart. _And if you are drawn towards unnatural tendencies…_

“Forgive me, Grandmother. Regrettably, seeing as Henry actually crossed an ocean to get here, I thought perhaps it’d be best to see to his comfort first.”

Bea’s hand flies to his arm, squeezing. Henry’s frozen on the spot. Catherine is beaming at her son while Queen Mary looks like her hair turned a shade whiter from those words alone. She doesn’t miss a beat, of course. Far be it from Philip’s belated rebellion to stop her from being a complete nightmare when it comes to anything Henry stands for. So she tries again.

“I see. Well, I hoped that given the joyousness of the occasion perhaps… Henry…” He hates how she says his name now. Like something stuck on the tip of her tongue she can’t wait to get rid of. Like an afterword she wishes she could forget. “… would try not to cause another scene but I suppose that’s too much to expect of you, isn’t it, dear?”

“Gran…” Henry tries to voice out, but he’s not sure what his excuse is here. What does he even say? I had a mental breakdown because Philip used to be as much of a bastard as you’re being right now? His rebellion has its limits. _A few moments longer_ , he promises himself. _You’ll be alone soon_ , he repeats again and again, trying to ignore how dirty he feels to be sharing blood with her, to have once sought her approval. He focuses on Bea’s shoulder touching his own and holds on to the knowledge that his family can be good too. It can. And if his grandmother wants him to drown under her expectations, then there are people out there who will dare to offer a helping hand and drag him out of the murk his name has become.

“Mum…” Catherine starts, but she’s interrupted.

“A scene?” Philip asks. Henry has no idea what’s happening anymore. “Nothing of the sort happened, Gran. Henry here was just a little overwhelmed. And no wonder. He’s been traveling for hours now and we woke you up at, what, mate? Three? Four am? In fact, I think it would be best if Bea took you back to the palace, don’t you think? We’ll have a proper celebration in the morning.”

Philip turns to him, a knowing look in his eyes. Henry doesn’t quite know how to process this, but he nods, full of gratitude. He knew Philip had a falling out with Gran, but he realizes now, he has never actually seen what that looks like.

Mary narrows her eyes at him. Henry can see her composure twitch ever so little. But if she turns away Philip, no one will be on her side anymore. And everyone here knows that. “It is inappropriate for him to leave now.”

Bea interjects. “Are you honestly insisting we take the ‘official photos’ or whatever it is we need to, today? Right now? With how these two look?”

Philip cringes at the accusation, yet Catherine is visibly biting on her lips to hold back her smile. Martha pretends her attention is on the baby, but she’s smirking too.

And Henry… Henry sees them. Like this. The three of them, side by side, like some kind of wall, a formation of shields that won’t break against the enemy force. And he’s both glad and upset at once, because they could have done this before. This is what they should have been, all these years ago, when Dad passed away. With Mum so far away from them, it should have been the three of them against the world and their predetermined futures, against the grief and the pain, holding each other up under the weight of their own bitterness and uncertainty. It shouldn’t have been Henry being a prick to everything that moved. Or Bea running off the only way she felt she could. Or Philip placing everything into neat little boxes for the showcase, so they would all be so much easier to deal with. They should have… But they didn’t. And Henry’s not sure how to do it now, no matter how deep the sentiment burrows, how fulfilling it is to see them so eager to try.

“We’ll take the photos outside the palace in the morning, Mum,” Catherine offers, and there it is. Another missing part of them. “We’ll see you later, my love,” she nods towards him, frowning.

Does he look as wrecked as he feels? He’s not sure how to make sense of the conflicting emotions playing around in his chest, too complicated for him to decipher, much less compartmentalize. He finds he can’t hide them like this. They demand to be felt, to be experienced through and through if he ever wishes to name them. But none of them stand out, none force themselves into a physical manifestation. So the only thing that surfaces through is the exhaustion, dragging him down until he falls.

Bea pushes herself closer against him, holding him in place. “Let’s go, Hen.”

He hears their Mum speak as they exit, asking if they’ve settled on a name. Philip tries to respond, only to be interrupted by Martha. “We’re still deciding.”

They get scolded for that too and Henry knows that Martha gave him an opening. A chance to discuss it with his brother first, before any decision is made.

Henry just wants to go home.

* * *

When he’s back in the palace, he remembers at last to check his phone. His room strikes harder now, after living in his and Alex’s apartment for two years. It’s clawing, how void of life it seems to be. Dead people’s furniture and pristine surfaces, unwelcoming to any piece of who he truly was. The only belongings he’s left here are clothes and things of his he’d rather not see. The furnishings still decorating this place were never his to begin with.

Even so, he melts on the mattress. His shoes have long been discarded next to the door, but he didn’t bother taking off his clothes. His arm is draped over his forehead, obscuring half his vision, but it’s quickly removed when he turns on his phone to a barrage of notifications waiting for him. The beginnings of guilt throb along the lump in his throat and he sits up in place.

18 missed calls and 10 text messages. From Alex alone.

henry??

bea called. said they couldn’t find you?? are u okay??

answer the phone

r u alright??

just tell me you’re good you dont have to tell me what happened

baby please

did you leave your phone somewhere

just

call me when you see ths

please hen

Alex answers the phone on the first ring. “ _Henry? Are you okay? What happened?_ ”

Henry’s eyes are stinging, guilt and concern clenching at his stomach in a nauseating combination. He’s cross-legged on the bed now, elbows on his knees and his head resting on his palm, pulling slightly at a few tufts of hair, just enough to ground himself. “I’m so so sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you. I left my phone back in Martha’s room and I…” He trails off, tugging just a bit harder. So stupid. That was so stupid. He sounds pathetic.

Alex sighs on the other end of the line _. “Sweetheart… I know, I know. Bea texted when they found you, but… damn it, Henry, you were gone for two hours. What happened?”_

“I… needed to get out of there.”

_“Okay,_ ” Alex says and waits.

Henry falls back onto his bed. “I’m so tired…” he admits, knowing it doesn’t answer Alex’s question. The words drag some of the heaviness away with them as they leave, however, and he takes a deep breath, relaxing in the way he feels his chest expand, melting deeper into his bed as he exhales. “And I don’t know what’s going on anymore,” he laughs, though it’s far from humorous.

“ _Baby_ ,” Alex sighs. His tone is so soft, Henry could live forever in the sound. “ _Do you want to talk about it?_ ”

“Don’t you have studying to do?”

“ _That doesn’t matter right now._ ”

“Of course it matters. You matter. And I want you to do well.”

“ _First of all, I’m going to ace it, thank you very much_ ,” Alex mocks offense. Henry can’t quite find the spirit to laugh but a smile breaks through to his expression. “ _And I l_ _ove you so much._ _You know that, don’t you?”_

“I love you too.” The reply comes as natural as the breath in his chest, but it still warms him up inside no matter how many times he says it. “Are you certain you’re not busy?”

“ _Positive. Lay it on me.”_

And so Henry does. He tells him about what Martha said and how they want to use their dad’s name. He tells him about the roof and Philip and the photo and even his assassination threat (at which Alex can’t help but whoop, laughing, and Henry feels another piece of that weight lift from his chest). He also tells him about Queen Mary and Bea and Philip and this odd solidarity he has forgotten how to feel and when Henry’s voice catches, he trusts Alex to understand why.

There’s a heavy silence between them for a moment, rendered somewhat awkward by the use of the phone, but Henry lets him process this avalanche of new information at his own pace. The tears stream freely from his eyes now, running warm down his cheeks and onto his hairline at each side. He blinks them away with fury yet makes no move to wipe them off.

_“That’s… a lot.”_ Henry wants to scoff, except it comes closer to a sigh. “ _I wish I was there with you_.”

“It’s not your fault.”

_“Still—It feels wrong, leaving you alone with this_.”

“You’re listening to me. Trust me, love, that matters to me… Can you make sense of any of this?”

_“Well…”_ Alex begins.

Henry closes his eyes, trying to imagine his expression. They’d turn the camera on, but it felt worse sometimes, especially times like this one, where he was sad and alone and just the right amount of needy to feel touch-starved. Seeing Alex without being able to touch him drove the distance to the front of his conscience harder. His body craved for the touch and at some level it didn’t understand why it couldn’t have it, not with the image of his boyfriend right there. And so the room felt emptier for his absence, more exposed. But with his voice in his ears, if he closed his eyes he could imagine, and hold on to the dream until he could have it again.

“ _It’s really not my place, Hen. Your family, your call._ ” Henry encourages him to continue anyway. “ _Okay, so obviously it’s great that your brother is trying to be a human being to you. It was good two years ago too, and I guess he’s even improving at it. But you still… Henry, you still don’t owe him anything. And in his defense—I cannot_ believe _I just said those words—but in his defense, he doesn’t seem to ask you to. You can just be his kid’s uncle. You can be as involved as you want to. It’s in your hands._ ”

Henry presses the palms of his hands on his eyes, roughly rubbing away at his tiredness. “I _know_ that,” he groans. “But what should I _do_?”

“ _What do you want to do_?”

“I don’t bloody know, Alex! That’s why I’m asking you.” He lasts two seconds of silence before adding, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m exhausted.”

Alex doesn’t tell him to go to sleep, he knows him far too well for that one. “ _It’s okay. But I can’t tell you what to do, Hen. And… I don’t have any crappy siblings, I lucked out with June but… I think I can understand why you’d want this._ ”

“Am I that pathetic to want to make amends with a man who treated me so terribly? To want… I don’t even know what I want! An acknowledgment of fault? He’s already given me that. His affection? That’s—it’s ridiculous.”

“ _Sometimes we value people enough to want to be close to them, sweetheart. Even after they’ve hurt us. Even if they don’t deserve it.”_ He wonders what Alex has in mind when he says this. Is it that friend they thought had betrayed them? Someone else? _“And…. Ugh, again I can’t believe I’m saying this, at least Philip is… trying? So it’s not like it’s one-sided. You still don’t have to forgive him, though. It’s your choice. It’s your right. Just let me know if I should punch him or… well, I’m not going to hug him. But I promise I’ll try my best to_ pretend _to laugh at his jokes._ ”

They laugh, with varying levels of humor and energy. Henry’s peters into a yawn. “ _Why don’t you try to sleep on it, Hen?_ ”

Henry hums. The comfort of Alex’s voice, the gentle assurance of his words is smoothening the sharper, crueler edges of his room, painting the world around him a little kinder. It’s magic for the storm inside his head.

“ _Oh, and Henry? Since you and Philip are on better speaking terms now, maybe just talk to him about the name?_ ”

“Another emotional conversation with Philip? I fear I might break him.”

Alex chuckles. “ _You might. But who’s going to hold it against you? Hey… do you want me to keep talking until you fall asleep?”_

“Please.”

And so Alex does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAH. This chapter got away from me, so the name conversation has been gently nudged into the next one. I'm thinking they might end up being around 5 chapters in total, but who knows at this point?
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's leaving comments and kudos on the work. I'm trying to be better about replying, but I definitely see you!! 
> 
> Oh, and I forgot to mention it in the previous chapters but you can find me on tumblr @ saltfics . See ya next time~


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, I know royal baby photos usually involve just the parents and the kid, and maybe one with the Queen meeting the new family member. With all the bad press Philip and his family got after the Waterloo Letters, maybe they thought it was a great idea to take them all together. They're all there anyway.

If he hoped the faded morning light would chase away the storm in his mind, he was wrong. His room in Kensington is far too cold to let the sun share its warmth, his bed far too empty. Henry wakes up with his limbs still heavy, the comfort of his blanket both a blessing and a curse, chaining him into his bed, and he spends a moment trying to figure out if that bone-deep exhaustion is physical or mental. He can’t decide.

Alex is probably asleep (he hopes), but he sends a quick text anyway, inconspicuous enough— _good morning. I love you_ —just to see if he’ll reply. He groans, switches sides on the bed, but makes no move to actually get up. His family is going to disown him if he misses most of today as well, and this time maybe he’ll actually deserve it. 

Alex would have a few choice words for that thought, but, well, Alex is not here yet.

A ping from his phone has him searching through three layers of sheets and blankets for the source. Bea’s name on the notification screen prepares him for what’s coming.

Aren’t you coming down for breakfast?

Can you cover for me?

Are you okay?

Of course.

Which was the wrong thing to say, _of course_ , because she immediately calls him. They spent three minutes lying to each other. Yes, Henry’s fine. Bea definitely believes him. With a small, concerned voice, she reminds him he needs to get ready for the photos.

It takes him an additional twenty minutes to get out of bed, so he rushes to get dressed. As he fixes the buttons of his shirt in the mirror, absently he thinks of how much Alex is going to hate those photos. He hates it when Henry poses with his press smile on. But maybe the sight of the baby will inspire a real one. With the Queen there next to him, it’s doubtful.

He’s just about done when a knock comes from his door. “Two minutes, Bea!” he calls, rummaging through his suitcase.

“It’s me, Henry.” Henry freezes. “May I come in?”

His stomach twists into knots, disagreeing with the idea of letting him in, a gut reaction born of years of practice. He forces the feeling down, stomps on it. _Sometimes we value people enough to want to be close to them. Even if they don’t deserve it._ Wasn’t that what Alex said? “Come in.”

Philip’s head peeks from the entrance, looking as uncertain as Henry feels. He pauses before walking inside, staring at him like he expects Henry to change his mind and send him away. When no protest comes forth, he finally allows himself in. His eyes take in Henry’s appearance and a hint of a smile plays on his pale lips. “You look nice.”

“Oh. Er, thanks. I can’t seem to find a good tie, though.”

“What’s wrong with the one you’re holding?” Philip asks with a frown.

Henry’s gaze flickers to the plain gray tie in his hand. “It’s a little… boring, isn’t it?” He has to bite back a laugh at his brother’s very visible confusion. “I guess I’ve been in the US for too long,” he chuckles.

Philip clears his throat. “I have a… navy one. In my room. If you’d like to borrow it.” Henry must stare perhaps for a moment too long, because he backtracks, “I guess not. I thought since you don’t have all of your things here—”

“No, please. Thank you,” Henry says, rushing over the words. “That would be helpful, thank you.”

Philip nods once and goes to leave.

“Wait, did you need something?” He feels stupid, doing this. Discomfort clings to the back of his neck, knotting the muscles there. It’s not supposed to be this hard. It shouldn’t be this hard. They’re brothers. And though Henry is the first to fault himself for everything, he holds on tight to the knowledge that it’s not _his_ fault they got that bad.

But it just might be, if he doesn’t take the metaphorical olive branch given to him. Maybe Alex is right. He doesn’t owe Philip anything. But if he wants this, if he really wants to dismiss at least some of the tension between them, maybe it’s time Henry did something about it too.

“Ah, yes, I wanted to talk to you, before the photos.”

Henry gestures at him to come inside from where he’s cowering halfway out the door again. It’s unnerving to see the tables turned, to see Philip hold most of the trepidation between them. It doesn’t satisfy him, though. This is not the kind of poetic irony he enjoys, perhaps because it includes him in the joke.

They sit down, Philip looking stiff and posed on the desk-chair, while Henry takes the bed, resisting the urge to let himself fall back down into it the moment he touches the surface.

“Mazzy told me about a conversation you had. About the baby name.”

Fuck. “Pip, honestly, it’s not as if you’re going to change your mind…”

“Regardless, I would like to hear it.”

Henry sighs, running his hands down the length of his trousers. “Very well, then. What names did you have in mind?” From the corner of his eye, he sees the way Philip straightens his spine, treading carefully around him.

“We’ve decided for certain that we will only be giving him two names. Of course, with the last names it’s already five.” He chuckles, and the genuineness from the day before is replaced by that stiff, awkward sound once again. “We were thinking of Arthur Christian. It’s rather lucky that Dad’s name is typically royal too, isn’t it?”

Henry’s hands have shifted to his bedding, where he’s clenching the fabric hard enough to be noticeable. “Right,” he nods, tone clipped.

“Just say it, Henry.”

He hates this. This feeling in his chest. It’s so… familiar. In all the wrong ways. It’s a brick in the pit of his stomach, it’s an ever-present cage around his heart that gets smaller and smaller and smaller until he’s all metal and pain and he can’t breathe. It brings out something nasty inside of him, but it’s faster than his guilt and speaks for him first. “I don’t think you should name your kid after Dad, Philip,” he snaps, then cringes at the sound of his own voice.

But he doesn’t stop.

“I don’t understand,” Philip says. “I thought you of all people would love the idea of honoring Dad.”

“Not when it’s you.” His brother physically recoils at the accusation in his voice, but Henry is not done. “You shouldn’t get to do it. Not as a bloody _gesture_ ,” he spits back the word Martha used, pushing himself up from the bed to pace in front of it. “I mean, you never even liked the man—”

“That’s not fair—”

“Isn’t it? Did you not stand in front of me, yelling at me, telling me about how he-he spent half our childhoods making movies? How he didn’t serve his country? How he fucking _left_ us, as if it was a _bloody_ _choice_?” His voice cracks and breaks, paving the way for the tears of frustration in his eyes. He fights them back. Like hell is he going to cry in front of Philip again.

“Now, hang on—”

“So no, Philip, _fuck you,_ you shouldn’t get to name your son after him!”

“Henry—”

“You didn’t even care—”

 _“Enough!_ ”

Henry scrambles backwards, his legs hitting the bed-frame. Philip is standing now too, red in the face, eyes scrunched up with anger and face carved with pain. “How _dare_ you?” he seethes. For every step forward, Henry takes one backwards and soon he’s pressed against the bedpost, watching his brother with wide, terrified eyes. “How fucking _dare_ you? Are you so used to playing th _e bloody victim_ you think you’re the only one that can hurt?!”

Henry flinches, his stomach climbing all the way to his throat. Shame flushes through him, but his indignation eats it up alive, too angry to accept fault. “You said—”

“Yes, I know what I said!” Philip throws his hands up, scoffing. “You’ve said a lot of _things_ when you were grieving too, Henry. No, shut up for a second!” he snaps when Henry tries to protest. He must see the fear in Henry’s eyes, because Philip’s expression startles with hurt before it crumbles in a bare-bones version of itself.

It’s odd, seeing him lose his composure like this. Philip has always been a kind of indestructible pillar in his life. A cold, uptight, unyielding pillar, but a pillar nonetheless. He doesn’t _break_ like that. Certainly not by Henry’s hands. He has never… Well… just once.

“I apologize,” Philip says, running a hand through his face. His jaw is set, betraying how much that apology cost him. “Henry… You cannot… When Dad died you started idolizing him. More than you did when he was alive.”

“I—”

“No. You loved him plenty when he was here, too, of course. But you practically sanctified him after he died. I, on the other hand…” He sits back down on the chair. No, he slumps onto it, a heavy, drawn expression aging his features. “I got angry. You see, Henry, I… Hmm. I’ve always felt the need to prove myself. I was the older, the role model, the heir. I was raised being told I’m great and I _had_ to prove it. First, it was to Dad. And I spent all those years, trying to make him proud, to be the man he wanted me to be—I know, I know he wouldn’t have liked who I was these past years, I _beg_ of you, do not repeat that. I heard you yesterday, and you were right.”

Henry sinks down on the bed again, a hand still resting on the bedpost like the cold wood could ever grant him the strength to finish this conversation. The anger from before has vanished, chased away by the shock, and faced with his brother’s confession, he remembers the last time he let that imprisoning anger take hold and released the fire inside him to burn the world around him as well.

“And then, wouldn’t you know it? He died. Before I could even—He didn’t see us grow up, Henry. He’s never going to meet my son. Or Alexander. Or see the work you and Beatrice do with the foundations.”

Henry chokes on his brother’s name, one arm wrapped around his stomach.

“And I was so… angry at him for that. For leaving so soon. For leaving us so untethered. And then Mum disappeared too. So I turned…” He sighs. He’s not looking at Henry, maybe because he can’t or maybe just to give him some privacy, since he must be able to hear his crying. “I turned to Gran. Which was, admittedly, the worst decision I have ever made, but she was the closest authority figure I could turn to, and I knew if I tried I could please her.”

“By selling out your siblings?” Henry breathes, yet there’s not much of a sting in his voice.

“It was definitely not my intention. I want you to know that, even if you don’t believe it. I thought… _No_. I have no excuse. Listen, I will never stop apologizing for the way I treated you and Bea. However, what you’re asking of me, Henry… it’s wrong. He was my father too. And I will not apologize because my grief doesn’t look like yours. You, of all people, know what it’s like to turn pain into spite.”

Henry doesn’t reply. His throat feels too dry, while his cheeks are still mapped with wet trails of tears. Half-heartedly, he reaches up to wipe them away.

“If it…truly bothers you that much, I’ll see to it that it’s a middle name. But I hope you won’t ask that of me.”

“No… No, Pip, go ahead. I…” He clears his throat, trails off. “Are we late? For the photos?” A part of him hopes Philip will swoop in and spare him from it, say that it’s okay, he doesn’t have to go. But even at their youngest, Pip wasn’t that kind of brother, and there’s only so much he can protect him from Gran’s wrath. “I keep getting you in trouble.”

Philip huffs. “I think we can survive a short delay. I’ll go get you that tie.” He heads for the door, his movements weighed down by the remnants of their words lingering between them. He pauses in front of the door and turns his head to look back at Henry. “Are we… all right? As all right as we were yesterday, at least?”

“I ran to you, didn’t I?” Henry mutters instead. It’s too quiet the first time, and when Philip asks him to repeat it, it gets stuck in his throat, comes out shaky. “When Dad died. I ran to you. Do you remember?” The words numb the tip of his tongue, liking he’s playing around with a language he doesn’t know and he falters for he can’t pronounce it.

“In the waiting room.” Philip nods. “I remember. You started crying and I… held you.”

Henry nods. He doesn’t know how to tell this to Philip, not yet. Maybe someday. They’re getting better every day. So maybe someday he’ll tell him that Henry was looking for an authority figure that night too. Someone, not to replace his Dad, never that, but someone older than him, a more grown-up adult, who could have told him it was okay, so there was a chance he could believe it because they’d know better. And he wonders where they went wrong after that. Why didn’t they stay holding each other against the sky falling on them? Why didn’t they just _hold on_?

Instead, Henry scorched the earth around him so no one would come near. Philip pulled himself so high above them they could never reach him unless they shaped themselves into what _he_ was. And they left Bea hovering somewhere in between, _alone_ , grasping at straws to pull them closer until she no longer had anything left to give them.

Philip doesn’t hear his train of thought. So what he says is this, “And then I held on too tight, I suppose.” And he’s wrong.

“It wasn’t that,” Henry whispers, shaking his head. “You shifted your grip.”

“What?”

A sad smile flickers on his face. Henry doesn’t look at him. With his eyes blurred and faraway, he can pretend he’s only talking to himself, intimate whispers in an endless, lonely room. “You shifted your grip. When I needed you, you were holding my arms. Embracing me. I was screaming and you held me back. Steady. And then… you moved. Up from the chest and around my neck. And your embrace turned to a chokehold. And the- the love,” he stumbles around the word, “turned into control. Strong, relentless and so very tight, until I couldn’t breathe. You thought you were doing something good, didn’t you? You thought you were still holding. And when you realized my body is not made like yours, in your attempt to fix it, you thought ‘I’ll just make him like me, then I’ll know what to do.’”

“Henry…” Philip gasps. His hand is still around the doorknob and it’s shaking so badly he can hear its creaking.

Henry bites down hard on his lips, shakes the rest of the thought away. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t…”

“Are you still writing?”

His head snaps up to him. “Excuse me?”

Philip shifts his weight from one foot to the other, his lips pressed tightly together. He looks like he regrets asking, but it must be preferable to Henry talking like that. “Writing. That is what you wanted to do, isn’t it?”

“Pip, do you actually pay attention to me when I talk?” He gives him a half-hearted smile that only manages to lift one corner of his mouth, but Philip returns it, relaxing. His feet drag when he tries to make his way to him, and Henry tenses in place, yet doesn’t stop him, curiosity loosening the anxiety that coils around his heart. Or expectation, and he marvels at the fact that he has come to expect instead of fear.

“I’ve been making more of an effort.”

His brother stops at his side, still standing, and reaches a hand towards him, halting for a moment just to see if Henry will back away. When he doesn’t, he lets it fall on his shoulder, giving him one firm squeeze.

The touch burns through his clothes, sending jolts up his veins to be carried all the way to his heart amongst blood so much like _his_ . It raises his heartbeat, fueled by a peculiar combination of discomfort and yearning and fear of the _absence_ of fear. Henry lifts his eyes to catch his gaze, and Philip watches him with narrowed eyes and pursed lips, a protective stance, waiting for his reaction.

“Good,” Henry croaks out, nodding, unsure of what else to say. “A-and to answer your question, yes. I am. I’m actually…” He clears his throat, uncomfortable discussing this with Philip. “… almost done with what I’m working on.”

“That’s great to hear. I think—I think you’ll be good at it.”

No words spring to mind, as if to prove that point wrong, and when he takes too long to answer, Philip gives one last nod, mostly to himself, and excuses himself from the room. Five minutes later, one of the palace staff knocks on his door to deliver the tie.

Henry slips it around his neck, not too loose, not too tight. The idea of wearing Philip’s tie still makes him a little hot around the collar. After a moment of contemplation, he unties it and switches the knot, altering just enough.

It fits him well. 

* * *

Henry keeps his eyes away from the press. He smiles when he should, and a few genuine ones slip through the facade as well, when his gaze settles on the right spot. Arthur Christian Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor is a proper angel, awake but not too fussy. Martha looks at Henry for a fleeting second when Philip officially announces the name and he nods at her without breaking his smile, grateful and a little embarrassed by her concern. Bea presses himself against him again for most of the charade. Mum is beaming, looking down at her grandson like she has never seen such beauty, looking around at her children gathered together like she couldn’t remember the last time she saw them like this. It was probably the wedding, but then again, a lot has changed in three years. The happiness has more room to fill now and it seeps deep within their bones, taking up the space where all that misery once lay.

Philip catches his eye above the rest and nods once, head tilted slightly as if to question. Henry smiles brighter and the surprise at his own gesture breaks another part of the wall between them.

Queen Mary smiles at her great-grandson, while promptly ignoring not one, not two, but all three of her grandkids, still sulking at Philip for the way she was treated the day before. No one seems to mind.

* * *

Following a mostly joyous affair of a lunch, Queen Mary’s attitude aside, Henry heads back to his room. His phone buzzes with a message.

saw the photos

you looked beautiful baby

and you were smiling??

talk go well?

It was… something.

I’ll tell you about it later.

Right now I just want to go to my room

and maybe not see anyone for the foreseeable future.

well.

how committed are you to that plan exactly?

Henry frowns at his phone, right as he turns the handle on his door to enter the room. He jumps out of his skin when a voice greets him from the inside.

“Because honestly, I have better ideas about what we could do with your time.”

“ _Alex?!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're almost there... One more left... Almost done ;u; (free me).
> 
> Confession hours:
> 
> I don't know if it actually translates to my writing how *done* I am with this story. I seriously thought about dumping it three times while writing this. I don't know what it is about it that makes it so seriously unrewarding compared to the rest of my fics, but I am. Very. Done.
> 
> I do hope my frustration doesn't slip into the story itself too much (keeping consistent quality in multifics is... impossible. Well, for me. haaah). I hope you liked it anyway? Let me know what you thought!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, people! Final chapter! This has a lot more Alex than Philip (because y'all wanted firstprince) though I seriously doubt anyone minds. 
> 
> I really hope you enjoy it!
> 
> Check the endnotes for important information!!
> 
> And a huge thanks to okay_pretender for betaing all the chapters in this story. You RULE.

Alex is spread out on his bed, hands behind his head, a devilish grin on his face that softens into pure joy as the realization lights up Henry’s face. He abandons the elaborate pose and jumps off the bed to meet him halfway in an embrace, warm and strong and long enough for Henry to melt against him.

Henry hides his face to the crook of his neck, breathing him in, testing the press of his body against his own, and he remembers what coming home feels like.

“Hi, baby,” Alex whispers in his ear, the still-present grin audible in the lilt of his voice. “Sorry I’m late.”

“What—” Henry grins, shaking his head. He pulls away just enough to look at him. “Aren’t you… early? Wasn’t your test today? How did you get here so fast?”

“Yeah… funny thing about that…” An unabashed guilt that betrays zero regrets shows up in the way he shrugs, in the crooked corner of his smile. “I kinda… talked to my professor… let’s say a respectable amount of time after you left. Asked her if there was any chance I could take it a little earlier.”

“You didn’t.”

“I may have.”

“And she let you?”

“Not at first,” he admitted, frowning. “She asked me what I could possibly have planned that’s so important and I told her I had to be there to welcome the new royal baby into the world. She… I took her a moment before she realized who I was, and that I was, therefore, not shitting with her.” He pecks him on the lips to stop Henry from shaking his head again. “Then she said yes.”

“The nepotism.”

“I’m sorry, did you say something ‘when you’re a prince, all you have to do is ask nicely’?”

Henry closes the gap between them, pressing their lips together. His hand goes to the back of Alex’s neck, playing with the small loose curls at the edge of his hairline. Alex puts his hands on Henry’s waist, bringing their bodies together, until every move, every shift travels along their skin in sharp, vibrant waves of electricity. They fall backwards, Alex now half-sitting on the bed frame with Henry pushing him further down the more he leans.

“I missed you so much,” Henry gasps between breaths.

Alex fumbles with Henry’s tie, loosening it from its knot, drawing it over his face before tossing it aside. “Yeah? I thought you didn’t want to see anyone for the foreseeable future.”

Henry chuckles, the sound low and breathless, and it makes Alex grab him by the lapel. “And _I_ thought you had better ideas to spend my time.”

“I do.”

“ _Prove_ it.”

* * *

Henry doesn’t realize how much he’s carrying, until it’s lifted from him. Although he’s gotten better at standing up for himself, Alex’s presence next to him always takes some of the load off of his chest, as gently as the featherlight kisses he presses on his cheeks.

Alex has his hand in Henry’s hair, absently playing with it, drawing swirls and patterns on the crown of his head. Henry positively _melts_ into it, burrowing deeper into his chest. It’s making him a little sleepy, and Alex chuckles when he yawns silently, lips stretched into a small _o_.

“You okay? Have you not been sleeping well again?”

Henry hums, lifting his head to look at him. He plants a kiss to the tip of his jaw. “No, I’m fine. It’s just… been a day.”

“You want to talk about it?”

“Right _now_?”

Alex shrugs, careful not to dislodge him from his position. “Suit yourself, baby, but we are meeting your family for dinner and maybe it’d help to be in the loop. _If_ you want to talk about it.” Henry is quiet, a small frown twisting at his lips and Alex tilts his head up with one finger to lean in and kiss it away. “Whatever you want, H. I just… I saw the name and I was wondering if you might be upset about it.”

“Ah, so all this was for comfort?”

“ _You_ kissed _me_.” Henry laughs at the accusation, mirth in his voice, mischief in his smile. It softens in the next moment, more honest, more vulnerable as he sits up.

Alex copies him immediately, threading their hands together.

And Henry tells him. (And when he mentions the borrowed tie, Alex may be fighting back a laugh or two, eying it where he tossed it on the floor earlier. “Let’s not mention this to him.” “Agreed.”) He doesn’t reveal everything. He doesn’t think he can, and it’s not just because of how bad Henry comes out in that conversation. The words he and Philip shared have gotten stuck between the second and third rib around his heart, pulsing with his beat, and even though Alex has his entire heart, he doesn’t know how to release them quite yet, how to let them reach the rest of him. So he summarizes, letting the true enormity of the morning’s events intonate his voice, deepen his breathing to fill the ache that opens there.

Alex seems to understand, for he soon has an arm around his shoulders while Henry talks. He rubs circles with his thumbs, guides him to rest his head against his own. When he’s done, they rest there for a moment longer, before Alex figures Henry has had enough time to process his own words.

“So how do you feel about it?”

“What do you mean?” He shifts to look at him, and Alex smiles at him, raising one shoulder.

“Like… do we like Philip now?”

Henry sighs, squeezing the place where their hands are still locked tight together. He starts playing with their fingers as he thinks the question through, his gaze pointed towards the movement but drifting off. “Would it be stupid of me to say yes?” Alex goes to say something, but Henry adds, “How about a strong _maybe_?”

He jolts when Alex plants a kiss on his cheek to steal his attention. “Hey. _Hey_. My personal feelings for your brother aside, I’m glad you’re getting along. It’s a good thing, H.”

Henry sighs. “You should have seen how Mum was looking at us. And honestly, we did feel different. Somehow. It felt good, Alex. I just…” He trails off, gnawing at his bottom lip.

Alex uses his free hand to stroke his cheek, the gentle touch at the corner of his lip loosening the bite. “You…?”

“I’m just worried it won’t last.”

Alex’s face falls. “Oh. You really think so?”

“I don’t know. And… I am not sure I want to find out.”

“No one is rushing you into this. No one’s forcing you to do anything. Take it at your own pace. And if it doesn’t work, abort mission.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“I know, I know. But either way, you don’t need to decide right now. See how it feels. I’ll be there with you, whatever you choose.”

Henry smirks, stealing a glance at him, brows raised. “Even if I deprive you of the opportunity to punch Philip in the face?”

“Sweetheart, if you were going to let me punch your brother in the face, you probably would have done that two years ago.” He teases, before adding, “I mean I wouldn’t be _opposed_ if you told me to do that now…”

 _“_ You’d get arrested.”

“Worth it.”

“And kicked out of the palace.”

“Probably.”

“And I’d be here alone.”

Alex fakes a gasp and leans in for another kiss. “You win. Nothing is worth that, baby. I’d never leave you alone. Don’t you know that?”

Henry lets out a hum of approval, switching from his lips down the side of his neck. “I do. And thanks to your excellent bargaining skills, now your professor does, too.”

“You’re fucking _welcome_.”

* * *

As soon as they can safely remove themselves from one another, which takes some time, Henry takes Alex to actually do what he promised to do and meet the baby. Bea joins them on their way there and the three of them make themselves comfortable in the nursery, alternating over who gets to fuss over the baby, and chasing away some well-meaning nannies, which, in all fairness, may not have been the best plan, as none of them have ever taken care of a newborn before.

When baby Arthur (or Arty, as Bea calls him, or AC as Alex does, while Henry still stubbornly calls him the baby, not yet entirely comfortable with the feel of his father’s name spoken again) starts crying, Bea tries to rock him back to sleep, to no avail.

“Should we call for Martha?” Henry offers, watching the poor babe wail, lips pursed in sympathy.

“What if you sang to him?” Bea asks, still struggling with the fussy baby in her arms. “Hush, my darling, hush, you’re okay…” she coos, gently rocking him.

“Bea, I can’t sing.”

“I don’t think babies care about that, Hen.”

“I doubt it would _help_.”

“Can I try?” Alex interjects, arms extended to receive the squirming bundle. Bea passes him over carefully and there’s something precious about the tender way Alex makes the switch, shifting him with the utmost care, a hand carefully cradling his head. He secures him in the crook of his arm and rocks him ever so gently, soothing him first in English, then switching to a few phrases in Spanish. Henry has no idea what they mean. “ _Shh, bebe, shh. Nunca eres demasiado joven para rebelarte. Calmate para mí para que podamos molestar a tu papá._ ”

They watch, awestruck, as Arty actually starts to calm down, his cries quieting, until he’s staring at Alex with those big, bright blue eyes of his. “There you go, _sobrinito_.” Alex looks up at their dumbfounded faces and gives them the biggest shit-eating grin he can manage. “Oh, I’m sorry—Was I just declared the favorite uncle?”

Henry shakes his head, a smile spreading on his face. “What did you even tell him?”

“Sorry, can’t tell. It’s our little secret,” he says, winking at the baby.

Bea laughs. “I can’t wait to tell Philip about it. He’s going to have a fit.”

“What am I going to have a fit about, exactly?”

They turn as Philip shows up at the door, an eyebrow raised at his sister. He takes in the room, probably looking for his son. Surprise flashes on his face when his eyes settle on Alex, before a polite, tense smile takes its place. “Alexander. I didn’t realize you were already here.”

“Yeah, I arrived a couple of hours ago. _Sorry,_ I missed the photos,” Alex returns the gesture, fully aware that hell would have frozen over before the Queen would have allowed him anywhere near those pictures. “Congrats on the little one, though.”

“Thank you,” Philip nods, his gaze flickering to the boy in his arms.

“Alex seems to have the magic touch with him, Pip,” Bea interrupts before he can say anything else, elbowing his side. “Arty immediately calmed down.”

“Is that so?”

“Y _up_ ,” Alex beams, a little too obviously. “Hey, can we babysit sometimes?”

“We have nannies.”

Henry can _feel_ Alex trying not to roll his eyes.

“Okay. Can we take your son outside sometime then?”

Henry places himself next to Alex, bumping their shoulders together so he can take a hint. He didn’t actually expect them to get along immediately; Philip has been _his_ brother for his entire life and he still spent the past two days having two to three different arguments with him.

“Oh… Err,” Philip’s attention drifts to Henry for just a second, “Certainly. Not right now, I’m afraid. Would you mind leaving the room? It’s Arthur’s feeding time and Mazzy should be here any second.”

“Martha doesn’t really mind,” Bea shrugs, but then takes pity on him after the look he gives her and ushers them all out.

After she promises to meet them for dinner, the two of them are left to return to their own room alone.

“Alex, didn’t you say you’d be nice?” Henry points out, with no real reprimand in his tone.

“Actually, I said I wouldn’t _punch_ him, and I didn’t, so.” Alex groans under Henry’s pointed stare, turning big eyes his way as if he’s in any way mad at him for being slightly passive aggressive towards his brother. “I’m sorry, but he’s just… he’s just…” His nose wrinkles up as he’s trying to come up with the right word. “… What’s a _really_ British thing I can call him?”

“… a tallywhacker?”

“Such a tallywhacker!” he exclaims, earning a look from a nearby guard. Henry guffaws loudly next to him. “Hen, what the fuck did that mean?”

“Nothing you need to concern yourself with, love,” he says, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“Yeah, no. What did that _ridiculous_ word mean?”

“I’ll tell you if you tell me what you said to the baby.”

“Fine, I don’t need to know.”

“Seriously, Alex, what did you _say_?”

* * *

They have about four more days in England before their other commitments force them to leave. Philip makes good on his promise and lets them take the baby out a few times, after Henry points out that he won’t get to see the little guy often with an entire ocean between them for the majority of the year. They do so on the last day before they leave too, a few hours before their flight that same evening, going to rest at a more private part of the gardens so the baby won’t come in contact with many people.

Alex is lying on the grass, one leg crossed over the other. A lazy smile eases his features as he watches Henry talk to his nephew about nothing and everything, the young one captivated by the smooth sound of his voice. Arty always settles down in Henry’s presence, eating him up with bright, curious eyes.

“Love?” Henry asks at some point, lifting his gaze away from the tucked up babe in his arms to look at Alex. “What are you thinking about? You have this intense look on your face.”

“You know, this isn’t a bad look on you.”

Henry freezes. “Oh.” His voice catches slightly in pitch and he wants to slap himself for that sound.

Alex cringes, sitting up on his elbows. “Sorry. Too soon?”

“No, no, it’s…” He’s thought about it too. Shaan’s words from the plane often slipped to the front of his mind these past few days. He’s not jealous of Philip; Henry is perfectly content playing uncle to his beautiful nephew. But it’s hard not to think about their own long-term plans after spending a week with a newborn. “Do you—do you want to?”

Alex shuffles closer to them and rests his chin on Henry’s shoulder, wrapping his arms around his waist, peering down at the boy who’s now starting to doze off. “It doesn’t have to be _now_ or anything. But… yes?” He looks up at Henry, eyes full of hope. “Don’t you?”

Henry doesn’t know what to say. The _yes_ that’s building inside of him doesn’t fit into such a simple, three-letter word. The past few days have been something out of a dream, that of a simple, domestic, stereotypical family bliss he never thought would be more than a fantasy out-of-reach, or worse, a forced reality with a woman he could never truly love, not the way either of them deserved, drenched in misery and weighed down by a thousand different what-ifs. And Arthur might not be theirs, but Henry loves him already. And he gets a glimpse of who they could be, in this future scenario. Every time he sees Alex play with the baby, every time he takes him in his arms, calms him down, laughs with him, Henry feels his heart want to break out of his chest. He’s so, so full of love and hope and this unbelievable, powerful _relief_ that it almost _hurts_ and it scares him.

But then Alex grins at him, with the wonder mirrored in his eyes and he thanks, perhaps for the first time, this complicated, incomprehensible universe that allowed him to have this, and begs for its mercy every single day so it will let him _keep_ it.

“Henry?” Alex whispers, cupping his jaw to guide Henry to look at him.

For all the love letters he’s written, and the other countless ones he’s conjured in his head, he can’t find the way to put the magnitude of all this into three short letters. He voices them anyway, and trusts Alex to know what he means. “ _Yes_.”

Alex beams at him.

“Of course I do, Alex, yes.”

He leans to kiss him, careful not to fumble with his hold on the baby, and he can’t quite grasp the picture they make, but he knows he might have a lifetime ahead of him just like this to learn it.

“Hey, H?” Alex says after they pull away. “Can I ask you something?”

“Always.”

“Was one of the reasons you were so upset about AC’s name here that you wished to use the name yourself?” Henry flushes, shame coloring his cheeks. He’ll be lying if he says it wasn’t at least part of the reason. “Because I have a solution to that. _And_ it would piss off your grandmother, which is a great plus, in my opinion.”

They laugh, but soon Alex’s smile simmers down into a more hesitant version of itself. Henry encourages him to continue.

“Okay, but what if— _if_ we got a boy and _if_ we adopted a child young enough for us to name them—” Henry’s heart still skips a beat at the word _adopt_ even if they discussed it less than ten minutes ago, and he’s already nodding, like Alex can do no wrong after this sentence, even though he probably could with some effort. “… We could use the Spanish version? _Arturo_. First or middle name.”

His eyes sting with emotion. Heaven help him, he’s going to love this man forever. “I—”

“ _Henry!_ ”

They jump at the sound. Arty starts to whimper in his arms, startled by the sudden noise and movement. “I’m sorry, baby, I’m so sorry, shush…” Henry whispers, his attention to the child, while Alex is stretching his neck, looking for the source of the sound.

“Is that Martha?”

Henry knows something is wrong the moment she sees her. Martha rushes towards them like a storm, with Philip a step behind her. The hem of her skirt is wrinkled like she has spent too long twisting it in her hands, too many curls have escaped her hairdo, and when she’s close enough to yell at them, he notices her eyes are red-rimmed.

“Where have you been?” she all but screams at them, her voice trembling. “You can’t just _take_ —” It cracks fully now, and she pauses to take a few deep breaths.

“We told—” Alex tries but she doesn’t let him finish.

“A baby needs his _mother_.”

“Martha, we had an alarm, we were going to get him back to you in time,” Henry explains. He looks over to his brother, if not for help then maybe some sort of clue for this behavior, yet Philip doesn’t look any better. And although he hasn’t been crying, there’s something hollowed out and desperate in the way he’s staring at Henry, his proud posture nowhere to be seen. His shoulders are slumped in defeat, his tie hanging too loose around his neck. “What’s the matter? What’s wrong?”

Martha reaches for the child and though Henry hesitates, he can’t find it in him to say no to her right now. Neither of them answer him. She heads back towards the palace and Philip moves to follow her inside, calling her name.

Henry gets up after them. He grabs Philip’s shoulder, turning him around to face him. “Wait, Pip, _hang on._ What’s wrong? What’s happening?”

Philip pulls away. “Weren’t you supposed to be gone by now?”

Disappointment is ugly and heavy and it settles right there on the lowest part of his chest, siphoning up all the joy he thought endless moments ago. “Tonight,” he croaks out, clenching his jaw.

“Good,” Philip nods. It takes him about two seconds to realize exactly how this conversation went and flinch at his own words.

“Wow, dude,” Alex says, now at Henry’s side. “Tell us how you really feel.”

“Look, I didn’t mean—” And Henry almost believes him, because Philip honestly looks a little lost. He runs his hand through his hair, trying to find a way to apologize even though it looks like there are about twenty other things he wants to do instead. “I apologize, Henry. But right now it’s best if you just left.” He regrets that too, a moment later, but it’s clear he can’t bother. He shakes his head, brows down-turned and almost apologetic, and runs after his wife and son, leaving Henry to stare at the place he used to be.

  
  


* * *

It’s not so much that Alex is angrier at Philip than Henry is, not really, but he certainly is a lot more vocal about it. They’re packing their last few things in their suitcases, and with every item he tosses inside, he grunts another string of expletives towards him. And Henry knows that Alex never cared for Philip. He also knows Alex remembers what Henry said only a few days before and he’s mad at Philip for betraying his trust, mad at himself for encouraging him to trust him in the first place. The only person he’s not upset with is Henry, which works well for him, because Henry is plenty upset at himself already. Maybe more than he is at his brother.

“This is such _bullshit_!” is the latest one, right as Henry pulls the zipper on his own luggage.

“Alex, just let it go. It’s… it’s whatever.” Alex doesn’t respond. He’s looking at something on Henry’s old desk, all his anger fleeing as he sighs. “Alex?”

He picks it up to take a closer look. Henry moves to his side and sees the faded photograph in his hands, the one Philip gave him back on the roof.

“Is this the photo?” Alex asks, even though he already knows.

Henry pries it from his fingers. Looking at it now, he doesn’t recall the day it was taken or the hundreds of days simple as that one, before grief and expectations forced the two kids in the photo away from each other. He recalls the look on Philip’s face when he gave it to him, the awkward hug he offered even if it was rejected, the way the three of them stood side by side against that vicious, stubborn, cold-hearted force of nature that kept meddling with them. 

Alex is right. This is _such_ rubbish.

“Fuck it,” Henry says, his voice quiet even when his blood is burning. “I’ll be right back.”

* * *

He enters Philip’s office without knocking, because common courtesy went out the bloody window around the same time someone made Martha fear for her son’s whereabouts. His brother is bent over on his desk, buried in two stacks of old books that look like they haven’t been opened in years. His suit jacket has been abandoned on a nearby armchair and his tie hangs undone now around his neck.

Philip looks up at his entrance. His body deflates with a sigh, resignation washing over him. “Henry,” he greets, his voice hoarse.

Henry shoots a fleeting glance at the bottle of brandy on his desk, already opened. “Philip, what the _fuck_ happened?”

He sighs again, sitting up slightly on his seat. “What happened, Henry, is that you were more correct than I thought you were.” One hand comes to rub at his eyes, his entire face contorting with exhaustion. “Our ancestors were, in fact, complete fucking _arses_.” With sluggish movements, he pushes himself up from the chair, rounding the desk to approach him. “I am truly sorry for the way I spoke to you earlier. As things stand right now, however, it’s best for you to leave, before you get too involved.”

“Or I could _help_ you.”

“I wasn’t there for you when you needed help, Henry. How would it be fair of me to ask you to do so for me now?”

Henry fights the urge to either slap some sense into his brother, or pull at his own hair, or both. 

“Of course it’s not fair, Pip, but guess what? It doesn’t bloody matter! If we’re not going to help each other in times of need, then why the fuck are we even trying to-to _fix_ this?” he exclaims, gesturing between them. “Let me _help_ you. It’s much better to have family by your side, trust me.”

The smile that stretches on his brother’s face is bitter and frail, and Henry realizes he doesn’t know how to do this. He and Bea were different. They had always been closer, and after the day he came out to her, that moment of vulnerability they shared tore down the boundaries between them. Nothing was too much anymore. But he and Philip were never like this, not even at their best. There are a million things blocking them from one another, from their history to their very own natures, and Henry can only try to open a small hole, one he’s not even sure he should be crawling through. If Philip doesn’t give him a way in, he won’t find the other side on his own.

“Don’t miss your flight, mate.”

Fucking hell.

The rejection will hurt soon, though for now all that courses through him is anger, wrapped around his disappointment like a disguise, so it can reveal the true magnitude of how much that fucking stings at a later time. Henry wants to yell at him. Or try to convince him otherwise. But he can’t justify any of the words that come to mind. It’s _his_ fault for trying in the first place, even if Philip was the one who instigated this volatile truce between them.

Instead, he only shakes his head at him, grinding his teeth to halt the barrage of words that will mean _nothing_ to him, and heads for the door.

“I’ll call you.”

Henry pauses, one hand on the handle. He turns his head back. Philip is looking away from him, clenching the glass of brandy in his hand like his life depends on it.

“What?”

“Once I’ve put things in order here and figured what needs to be done. I’ll call you. I…” He dares to meet his eyes. “I could use your help, Henry. Is that okay?”

Henry doesn’t speak at first. It’s only after Philip’s staring persists that he decides he did in fact say all those words to him, and Henry didn’t just imagine the entire conversation like some guilt-ridden, double-edged nightmare. In the end, he approaches Philip and hands him the very thing that led Henry there in the first place.

Philip frowns at the photo now in his hands. “Why—”

“Hold on to it for me. To remind you to call me later.”

He puffs a feeble, tired laugh, but nods. “Very well.”

* * *

Bea later gets the gist of what happened from Alex, and promises she’ll figure out what went wrong there either from her brother or his wife. She’ll let them know.

“Are you worried about him?” Alex asks. Their plane is just ascending into the air and they have a long flight ahead of them. Henry’s head is resting on his shoulder, and Alex is twisting his locks between his fingers again.

“Not just him,” Henry admits. “Martha was shaken too. Something happened. And he wanted _me_ away for it?”

“What did you do to piss off your grandmother this time, H?” Alex teases him.

“Nothing! Well… mostly nothing.”

“So something but you’ve done worse things?” Alex gets a shove to his side for the comment, though he laughs through his yelp. “Do you think he’ll tell you? Philip?”

Henry looks out of the window, watching as they quickly leave London behind. It’s not his home anymore, or at least not the first place he associates with the word, or the feeling. But it’s a home. It’s where his sister is. His mother. Now it’s where his nephew awaits him as well. Philip and Martha.

“I hope he will.”

And maybe it’s fine. As long as they’re not confining him, maybe there’s nothing wrong with having a few more strings to tie him to people and places. To lead him to a home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... oh, wow, it's actually over. I did it.
> 
> Well, SORT OF.
> 
> Because as it's, well, quite obvious from how I ended it, I do have an idea for a continuation of this. And if I ever figure out *how* to write it, I'll probably post it as part of the series. This fic has ended thematically, however, so we're officially concluding it here.
> 
> Yes, I'm the idiot who almost gave up halfway through writing this and now wants to write a sequel. Don't @ me.
> 
> There is also definitely another oneshot in this universe! That will almost definitely get written (I hope) so look forward to that! Maybe.
> 
> A huge, heartfelt thanks to everyone who has left a comment or kudos to this story. I'm going to ask you one more time though, you know, for tradition's sake: if you enjoyed reading this, please leave a comment below!
> 
> Thank you so so much for reading! Find me on tumblr @ saltfics! Till next time~


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